He’s So Unusual: Donnarama’s World

It’s girls night in, complete with pedicures, wigs, hot chocolate, and dishing on celebrity scandals. It feels like those winter slumber parties when I was twelve. We’re doing makeovers and everything. Sound like fun? Oh, it gets better- because my BFF for the night only is Toronto’s most eligible bachelor. He’s a heartbreaker, all right- smoldering eyes, sexy tummy, five-o-clock shadow, and oh, yeah- a tickle trunk full of wigs and glitter. Vince Pincente always dreamed of being a star, just like millions of little boys. He had no idea it would actually happen. The catch? He’d be wearing a dress.

Meet Donnarama, a free-spirit who longed for the stage- or at least the camera- and hoped to be a famous horror movie actor when he grew up. Fate would have it that he’s a dead ringer for Barbra Streisand, instead, if he shaves and adds a little lipstick!

Happy for an audience by any means necessary, Pincente started showing up at amateur talent shows dressed as Barbra. One day, she found an old wedding dress at the Goodwill and envisioned Madonna, writhing away on stage in the gown. Donnarama was born: it was short for Madonnarama. The dress got recycled quickly from crooning Like a Virgin to rocking Courtney Love numbers. Donnarama thought the drag world was overloaded with Cher and Babs, and could use some old time rock’n’roll.

“Celebrity sure beats telemarketing and retail,” says Donnarama. “I woke up one day and found I was a cult on You Tube.”

Donnarama didn’t have to scrounge around at talent shows for long- youth, beauty and creativity were all on her side, and instead of getting lost in the catty, cut-throat, drug-saturated underculture of men who wear hose, Donnarama was determined to remain sweet-natured, fun, and funny.

Today, she is Toronto’s drag legend and she’s not even 30. She won already, and she’s going out again for Toronto’s prestigious Drag Idol award. But it’s not just a gay thing- the straight newspaper voted Donna Best Drag Star in Toronto. She’s won umpteen awards, trophies, badges, and whatnot, and there’s no doubt that the best is yet to come.

“Come on in, girl,” Donnarama calls from somewhere inside when I arrive. The halls are decked with garish amounts of Christmas décor. With glitter and candy canes and colourful balls everywhere the eye can see, the decor gives new meaning to the term ‘festive.’ I trip over some killer thigh-high boots and slip on some kind of lace.

“What do you think?” Donnarama appears in a tank shirt, arms rippling, track pants sliding slightly to reveal a yummy backside. Ah, well, paradise not for me. “Sorry, I’ve only got my face half-on, darling,” He bends down and picks up the slip. “With the boots? When it’s freezing outside, nothing else?” He steps back into a pile of crinoline to get a look in the mirror. “That would definitely be a taxi only night!”

It’s hard to imagine that this gorgeous guy is also Toronto’s most gorgeous girl. “I wanted to be a star,” he says. “I thought I’d be an actor or a rock star. I’m definitely not a girl, but I don’t mind playing one on TV!”

He beckons for me to come down the hall to his room. It’s very much a boy’s room. There are horror movie posters and plastic axes and whatnot everywhere, and dozens of old beat-up video boxes with titles that contain ‘return’ or ‘revenge.’ The bed is utilitarian, and guy-style, it looks like it hasn’t been made in months. The sheets aren’t pink or satiny, just grey. I poke around curiously in the bookshelf. There are some old John Saul thrillers and a stack of more literary ghost stories like Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery and some Poe.

Donnarama reaches for the stereo volume and suddenly strains of New Order’s Regret starts pumping loudly and the feeling is instantly nostalgic. A closet door swings open and her legendary tickle trunk is pulled from the closet floor.

“They say gay people are more outrageous but it’s not true, they’re a rather conservative lot,” she says, “overall.” A few extremely outrageous gowns surface, and she pulls them out of the trunk, one after another, like scarves or rabbits from a magician’s hat. “We’re far too pulled-together and clean-cut. Now Bjork, that’s a fashion icon I look up to. She’s the most fucked up human being who ever dressed and she lives in a fantasy world.”

I can’t believe my eyes when Donnarama pulls an ….egg purse? …from the trunk. “I made it myself, “ she says proudly, holding it against her. I’d already guessed that. Years of working at Value Village made her expert at spotting goodies- from Chanel castoffs to old Sears junk- wild patterns that she can tailor to a more contemporary fit. Donnarama makes everything herself. Once she sewed a bunch of cloth dolls she bought at the Goodwill, fused together into a ‘baby doll’ dress. She calls her ‘line’ Salvation Armani.

“An EGG PURSE!” she squeals. “You know, to go with Bjork’s swan dress.”

Donnarama is the kind of drag queen who makes a dress out of garbage bags, writes GARBAGE on it in big letters, and then performs as Shirley Manson. (And she interviewed his idol Shirley for Fab Magazine!) She’s just never what you expect. It MIGHT be Celine Dion, but then, it might be a tampon fight tonight, a re-enactment of that infamous scene from Carrie. One day it’s a pregnant Catholic schoolgirl. She’s a brilliant comedian, a true actress. I’d make her go out there as ‘Sandy Kaufmann’ but I doubt anyone would get it. Here’s a girl who works hard for the money, but refuses to get too serious. “In this business, you can’t get tripped up over a ripped nail or a wrinkle or a missed phone call. Cookies crumble, okay?”

She tosses a photo from a stack of clippings that are falling everywhere. I’m so amazed: it’s Donnarama, somehow transformed into Frida Kahlo. The thick, dark hair pinned back look like her own: a handy Mac pencil gave her the mannish brows Kahlo was famous for. “I try to go for uncharted territory,” she says. “And Frida spent her life in bed, sick. I wanted to let her out for a bit. Besides, I think that is the first time anyone went onstage intentionally with a unibrow.” We titter and giggle like children.

She ruffles through more news stories about her act and finds a photograph of her with a sweet bob, a red and black polka dotted dress, and mouse ears. Minnie Mouse, perfection. Another- skintight yellow suit, all curves-it’s Uma from Kill Bill. “There should be a little Priscilla and a lot of David Lynch.” I don’t know if she means Priscilla Presley or Priscilla Queen of the Desert, but I don’t bother asking because Donna’s chattering on freely about bringing joy to the world.

“It’s all a sense of fun, something less serious with room for everyone. I don’t have room for bullshit politics.” Donna’s drawing on those lips. She has a lot of Mac pencils in various colours and quickly sketches Donna’s features over Vince’s. She snaps on some false eyelashes. Rush Hour by Jane Wiedlin starts up, and she dons a pair of neon green striped tights, dancing madly. I’m in the middle of an ’80s Bananarama video or something.

“I gave drag up, you know.” I remember, because my arts collective had been begging her to do a routine for an art show we were throwing. It was ‘Re-introducing Donnarama, back by popular demand.” It was hard to get her to come back out of the closet. But she did.

“I gave it up because I was feeling unappreciated. I was a quitter. Things weren’t going my way. I was selfish, I was young.” She sighs. “I missed it so much. And I decided it couldn’t be about catty, competitive bullshit or you couldn’t survive. I brought my humour in. Humour opens doors. Joking around lets people know what I’m all about, to make you laugh. You can be a boy or a girl. Who cares? EVERYTHING is funny!” Donnarama picks up her guitar and starts belting out some Hole.

But it wasn’t all guns and roses for this one. She’s famously quiet about her private life, family and past. It’s wise in showbiz, but then it’s not exactly a secret that Donna’s mom looks just like Donatella Versace and her sister was cracked out. Along the way, Donnarama also lost a few friends to AIDS and drugs. “Like that’s anything new to any community, get real! Life is life. Sorrow is a given. I won’t complain about a bad childhood… it’s one that nearly everybody shares- I mean, get real, who grew up perfectly loved and pampered?”

“You want to know about my childhood? My mom was our best friend. We listened to Kiss together. I lived in my own little world. I hardly went to school. I did whatever I wanted. I loved most to make people laugh.”

Later, after the laughter and the tears, with fresh glittery talons in place and the Raggedy-Ann red lips (simply called, Mac Red), I gather up my notebooks and scarves and gloves. As I’m trading in some too-big patent silver pumps for my more wintry Uggs, I notice a giant poster of Barbra Streisand’s famous profile by the kitchen. “You really do look like her!” I say, kissing her goodbye on her big nose. I see a caption on the poster and look closer to read it. “Funny Girl,” it says.

visit the writer, Lorette C. Luzajic, at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
take a chance on me! support small press literature and order my book, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, which Donnarama lists among her favourites! you can get it at my site, or online with indigo or amazon.

Don’t Miss Julie Ann Bertram Live at The Caddy

Julie Ann Bertram live at The Cadillac Lounge
1296 Queen Street W.
April 4 at 8pm

www.julieannbertram.com
jab@songmuze.com
416.262.8356

Don’t miss wild child Julie Ann Bertram perform gorgeous alternative folk rock from her newest album Woe is Me. If you’ve never seen this red-haired goddess sing live before, don’t miss it. Julie Ann’s stellar songwriting, passionate guitar mastery, and ethereal beauty make for an intense experience you won’t soon forget.

Coming down to her home, Toronto, from her new home in the great northern climes, Julie Ann just gave birth to a new baby boy in February, and she’s basking in the afterglow of baby and her new album release. Northern Ontario mag In Retro wrote a terrific feature about her (http://www.in-retro.com/inretromag.html) and she’s available for more interviews while in town, or over the telephone.

Julie Ann has been compared to everyone from Tom Waits to Sarah McLachlan to Jane Siberry, but she is very much her own force, something along the lines of Isis or Aphrodite. Woe is Me is for the literate ecologist, for the poet whose dreams have broken, for the frock rocker ready for something out of this world that still makes sense in it.

I Heart Cilantro/ I Hate Cilantro

Got too much time on your hands? Hate cilantro? Then you, too, could join over 1000 others at www.ihatecilantro.com. You can even order a hoodie making your loathing of this herb clear to any doubters.

As for me, I’m with MJ when he purred, “I’m a lover, not a fighter.” It’s true that cilantro is an acquired taste, but then again, so are most of the best ingredients in life including wine, coffee, chili peppers and asparagus.

Few herbs inspire the love-hate camps that cilantro does. Detractors find the sharp, astringent, soapy taste too bitter, but fans are addicted to these exact qualities. Mexican and Thai dishes use the herb liberally, and Indian and Portuguese cuisine is not complete without it. I find that cilantro adds distinctive, unusual flair to all kinds of dishes in my kitchen, but if you don’t like the flavour, there are plenty of reasons to add it to your diet anyways- this herb is extremely nutritious and healing. Its medicinal qualities are wide-ranging, from promoting urinary tract health, boosting the immune system, fighting allergies, aiding digestion, reducing gas and nausea, soothing inflammation, balancing blood sugar, fighting salmonella, alleviating arthritis symptoms, detoxifying the liver, and killing viruses and bacterial infections. In addition, the fresh herb is a good source of thiamin and zinc, Vitamins A, B6, C, E, and K, riboflavin, niacin, folate, pantothenic acid, calcium, iron, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium, copper and manganese.

Cilantro is unique in its ability to help eliminate toxic metals like mercury and aluminum from the body. It is so efficient and swift at chelating metals that they can be found in the urine directly following ingestion! Many naturopathic doctors recommend chelation therapy even though it is time-consuming and introduces a chemical compound called ethylenediamine tetraacetic acid (EDTA) into the body to get rid of metals, because lead, arsenic, and mercury are highly poisonous and cause severe symptoms in metal-sensitive people. Cilantro is the only known natural chelation agent.

Coriandrum sativum is a hearty annual with vibrant green, fan shaped leaves. It resembles flat-leaf parsley, and is sometimes called Chinese parsley. Asian cookery uses the root as well as the seeds, called coriander, and the leaves, called cilantro. Keep in mind that the seeds and leaves are two different ingredients. Seeds can be powdered and added to dishes to help marry flavours together. They have a warm, nutty taste with a hint of lemon. Do not interchange these ingredients when following a recipe. Also, do not use the flavourless dried cilantro, though this may be useful to those who don’t like the taste. The dried herb retains some of the health benefits, but does not pack the medicinal punch of fresh leaves. Most recipes call for cilantro to be added at the end of cooking because heat removes much of the flavour- this may be desirable if you are adjusting your taste buds to the tangy wonder herb. It’s also a good idea to freeze the herb rather than letting it go rotten- a fresh bunch keeps for a few days in your fridge and a few months in your freezer, retaining much but not all of its flavour.

The best way to begin exploring this amazing plant is to head out for some Vietnamese, Thai and Mexican cuisine. Or impress your friends with a killer Mexican-style hors d’oeuvre that is easy and spectacular- melt a bit of butter and lemon juice with piles of chopped leaves and garlic, then grill shrimps in the mixture. Everyone will ask for the recipe!

Few dishes excite me as much as my recipe for Summer Soup. Its warm lemony chicken broth contrasts with a dollop of ice-cold but hot cilantro salsa, and makes a perfect appetizer or light meal. Sautee two chopped leeks in butter with a pinch of cinnamon. Add about eight cups of chicken broth, juice from two lemons, salt and pepper and a beaten egg. Use a hand-blender on the mixture, but leave a few chunky leeks, then toss in a few egg noodles. In the blender, mix a cup of chopped cilantro, a tomato, half a red onion, lemon juice, a red and green chili, 2 tbsps olive oil, cumin, chili powder, and salt and pepper to taste. Refrigerate until cold. Spoon into piping hot soup with a bit of yogurt or sour cream just before serving.

visit the writer, Lorette C. Luzajic, at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

order Lorette C. Luzajic’s book through Indigo or Amazon online, or visit thegirlcanwrite.net.

The Mighty Reuben

There are some things better left for another to cook. Try as I may, Thai always tastes like either nothing, or rubber tires, when I attempt a recipe at home. My restaurateur friend has no issue with the subtleties of Thai broths and chili seasoning: John also makes a spectacular Reuben sandwich. This is something I really only like to order in New York City. I live in Toronto, so it’s not a sandwich that appears regularly on my menus. The odd time I’ve ordered it here at home, it’s either flavourless or sloppy with grease. The one Toronto spot that shone was The Tulip, at Queen and Coxwell. Overall, had John not served me up a masterpiece, I may never have had one again.

Like all great mysteries, the origin of the Reuben sandwich is hazy. Two conflicting legends are circulating, and both involve a Jewish guy named Reuben and a slab of rye bread. I like to go with the classic 1938 account of Arnold Reuben, who slapped together a sky-high sandwich for a New York actress who came into his deli. She said she was famished, and he made a sandwich she called unforgettable. Arnie said he would name it the Anna Selos Special, and she said it should be named The Reuben. The competing story has a 1956 Omaha, Nebraska sandwich recipe contest winner named Reuben as the diner designer. But it seems solid to me that this thing was born in New York. Where else could sauerkraut go gourmet?

John assured me it’s not difficult to master at home, with major benefits like no charge for half a dozen pickles on the side and stuffing as much of everything as you want into the bread. I was game- I make a mean grilled cheese, and as a German gal, thought a messy sauerkraut sandwich should be a breeze.

Umm, yeah.

Tuesday afternoon starts out with the search for some corned beef. I already know that ‘corned beef’ means brine-salted brisket. Apparently, the salt chunks used to be called ‘corns’- perhaps salt-corns as to peppercorns, but I’m not sure. I don’t really know what I’m doing at the market because I seldom purchase cured meats for home use. Mainly because I could eat an entire row of fat Genoa salamis in front of a How to Look Good Naked marathon with my girl Gok Wan.

I can only find one tin, imported from Brazil, and I wonder about the little key attached to the tin. I’ve never used a device of this kind, and the strangely triangular tin seems odd. I know it’s so that the corned beef will slide out easily, so I don’t worry. Until I get home. None of my brute strength can open the damn thing. I rip half of a fingernail off tinkering with the damn can. Then I ruin my most expensive kitchen knife and practically commit suicide by error as the blade slips a dozen times, butchering several fingers, severing a few arteries, and ruining my shirtsleeve. As a modern girl, I head online, only to find that many others have been driven mad by this can and have thrown it out the window. The simplest suggestion is to use a regular can opener, so I do, with great difficulty going around the weird corners, but I manage.

But what is this inside? Lord help us all, it’s dog food. My stomach retches as I spoon a heap of reeking meat. What if it’s not dog food, but DOG? What if it’s not dog meat, but human? I’ve read somewhere that most of us have actually eaten human flesh at least once. In times of extreme poverty, handy corpses have stretched that meat dollar by conveniently fattening up sausages and ground meat. While we are all quick to blame this type of stuff on urban legends with no basis in truth, the truth is that things are always MUCH WORSE than they appear, and that humans are capable of absolutely anything. So I can assume that there is a good chance that those girls who disappeared on a trip to the beaches of Cancun ended up in this tin of Brazilian brisket.

It matters not: I’m adventurous, and millions eat this every day, so it must be good. I scoop it out and bravely lay it on the rye, topping with sauerkraut and Thousand Island salad dressing and Swiss cheese. Authentic Jewish versions call for homemade Russian dressing, apparently, but the popular versions today use Thousand Island and so did my friend John. The grilling bread and cheese smells marvelous, except for the acrid, cat-food stench of the meat rising up from the pan as well. Oh, boy.

Two bites in and I can’t recall ever being so disgusted in my life. I watched my brother eat chocolate covered cockroaches that I bought him for Christmas, and didn’t feel the bile rising. Thanks to this festering funky flesh, I will always loathe rye bread and Thousand Island dressing. I have never had such a disastrous kitchen drama. Stuff has burned, stuff has been flavourless, stuff has been too spicy, stuff has been gross. But never before did I burp barf.

The remedy is simple: never, ever use can-corned. Use deli shaved. Or use tuna, which is what my friend John used, but didn’t tell me until it was too late. I may now be able to make a beautiful Reuben but I will never again be able to eat one. Goodbye, Reuby Tuesday.

Lorette C. Luzajic
thegirlcanwrite.net

Paprika, Hungary’s Spice of Life

Without paprika, there would be no goulash- or any other passionate cuisine in Hungary. What Hungarians ate before Christopher Columbus brought back the capsicum annum from Mexico is a distant memory. Hungary’s red gold is truly the spice of life, an integral part of their culture. At harvest season in Kalocsa, the “paprika capital”, the shiny little red pepper can be seen far and wide. Fields of plants shimmer in the sun, and strings of peppers hang from every porch and doorway.

Paprika is nearly a synonym for Hungary. This bright red, sweet spice with a light bite of heat and bitterness enlivens everything from sausages to mushrooms to potatoes. The use of paprika seems an innocent enough freedom, providing a colourful and affordable condiment. However, during the Turkish rule, cultivating this pepper was prohibited and the punishment for flouting regulations was death. Thankfully, many Hungarians took this risk and cemented growing and curing traditions that now yield the piquant, sweet flavour to many dishes around the world.

Hungary was hit hard again in the mid-1990s when unscrupulous growers began adding lead oxide, a poisonous pigment used in red paint, to intensify the colour of lower-grade crops. This led to stomach aches, paralysis and death, and caused a drought in spices when paprika was pulled out of the marketplace, creating lost revenues and economic fallout. The hearty, pragmatic Hungarians refused to eat without their beloved spice and bought coffee grinders to make their own from whole dried plants, instead of relying on merchants and producers to create the peppery powder.

The spice was banned again in 2004, this time when it was found to contain aflatoxin B 1, a carcinogenic microtoxin produced by mold. Growers and cultivators were horrified that their world-class crops, renowned as the best paprika in the world, were contaminated. Merchants of Hungaricum, this world-famous paprika, were incensed to discover that the bad batches contained peppers imported from Spain and Brazil and not their own products. Despite these seemingly constant setbacks, few cabbages or stews are ever made without the national spice, and most Hungarians consider paprika a food group.

Hungary sure is valiant about a good goulash or chicken paprikash, and its historical methods of production and curing give us the bittersweet and pungent delicacy, but Spain was the first to powder the pepper. Legend says Columbus gave samples of the capsicum to the monastery in Guadalupe, and cooking with the new world pepper spread rapidly through Spanish cuisine. It also became a classic ingredient in Serbia and Croatia and other Balkan lands. Each country has slightly different preferences in strain of the pepper, in drying times, in smoking (or not) procedures, and so on. It’s still popular in Central America and Mexico, though the palate must share this flavour with dozens of other hotter peppers. Americans love it, too, often using it as a cosmetic to liven up the colours on the plate. It’s a handy condiment to have in the pantry when fruits and fresh veggies are lacking, because paprika is laden with Vitamin C, and its transport via ships in the days of world exploration saved many smart sailors from scurvy.

Hungarians would say there’s no taste like home, and it’s easy to try your hand at some classic, hearty dishes. To make goulash, simply simmer a couple of chopped onions in butter with garlic and paprika (I like to use lots, in the Hungarian tradition that this is a food group!) Stir over low heat (high heat scorches paprika and makes it bitter). Add chunks of beef and a little bit of water, a few potatoes, and some salt, and let it simmer on low heat for an hour or so. Many recipes call for tomatoes, but many traditional Hungarian cooks veto this idea. The tomato can overshadow the sweet intensity of the paprika.

Chicken paprikash is just as easy and quite possibly the best chicken I ever made at home. Though leaner cooking calls for boneless, skinless breasts, cooking with the meat on the bone makes this so tender it’s worth a few extra calories. Sautee, on low heat, a few chopped onions in butter and garlic until tender. Add sour cream and as much paprika as you want, making a vivid red sauce. Pour this simple mixture over your chicken and cook in the oven for an hour. Salt, and sprinkle with another dash of the good stuff before serving.

Such a Nice Guy: The Outlaw, Larry Norman

Such a Nice Guy: The Outlaw, Larry Norman
4/8/1947 – 2/24/2008

“I feel like a prize in a box of cracker jacks with God’s hand reaching down to pick me up,” Larry Norman said the day before his heart stopped. “I am ready to fly home.”

Larry was a natural storyteller, and he drew them from two sources only: real life, and the Bible. His songs are all vignettes of various characters and Larry’s observations about human spiritual nature. I veered a little far from the straight and narrow to always swallow his brand of Christianity. Then again, Larry was also banned from the conservative world. He was extremely free with the words ‘rock n roll’ in his songs, and he refused any of the saccharine polish in his music that characterized the burgeoning field of contemporary gospel music. He said it was never his intention to preach to the converted. He never apologized for rock’n’roll.

He was truly a radical because his integrity was never flashy. He actually tried, as best he could, to emulate Christ, not the trends of religion that change throughout history. No one could tell him to cut his hair or stop helping homeless people. On top of a spirit of real compassion, Larry was enormously creative, and had a distinctive voice that could convey a stunning range of emotions like no one else. His mild-manned, quiet fortitude gave way to a soaring falsetto. He was also an amazing poet with a real gift for the small story in every ordinary moment. Though he lived with heart problems since he was a young man, he demonstrated the peace that passeth understanding. When his fears about the future surfaced, when anxieties took hold, he examined himself from the inside out to find the source of life and to spread that peace to us. He also had a dry, understated sense of humour that I loved. His ministry was a blessing to many.

Larry’s peculiar quietness provided some sort of humble unity with his audience. He could rock the flock, but his unassuming nature was at odds with being a ‘rock star’. Larry managed to dodge extreme fame by refusing to abandon the Christ-centred songs to go into secular rock like his colleagues, including Dylan and Clapton. He performed with The Doors. But Larry preferred the Solid Rock to the glitterati of rock and roll, and that’s exactly what he called his independent recording label. Still, he was famous enough to find his name alongside Elvis Presley, his other idol, in the Gospel Hall of Fame. And the Simpsons used one of his song titles in a comic book: “Why Should the Devil Have All the Good Music?”

When I was still a little girl, I went to see Larry Norman in upper state New York. He prayed with me, walked with me, after the show, as if he had all the time in the world. I never forgot that, and later, at a show in St. Catharines, Ontario, he recognized me. I couldn’t believe it. I was fortunate enough to see three of his shows in my life. I wish I’d seen fifty.

from I Hope I See You in Heaven, Larry Norman

“Now I’m sitting in this garden in the middle of my days
And my memories drift and harden as the years they slip away,
And I’ve been looking in this mirror at the age around my eyes
Time is such an earnest laborer, precision is his neighbor.
Lay my body in the ground, but let my spirit touch the sky.”

Until we meet again, my friend.

Visit the writer, Lorette C. Luzajic, at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
You can order her book, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos, through indigo or amazon online.

Calling all Angels: a Kindasorta Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, exactly half my life ago, Daniel and I went out on impulse and got matching tattoos, an unassuming rose, on our chests. Last night we were chilling at his pad for a quiet night of wholesome American Idol fun. Still festive after all these years, we enjoyed the company of gin in outrageous and perhaps a little outdated martini glasses, and more than a few Madonna numbers, as usual.

A day like this is no small treasure: what a gift is friendship.

Later, after we took in a half hour each of Seinfeld and Will and Grace, I headed home, and gave another good friend of mine a dingle. I’m happily the third wheel on the John and Gonzalo wagon. We love a good dinner party, some music, some seriously intense conversation and a good chardonnay. We love to laugh. I was the Best Girl at their wedding, pretty in pink as I stood with my friends as they wed. I was so damn proud to live in Canada, where my friends were newly able to celebrate their love just like everybody else. Today, we simply make plans for some Sunday night gourmet.

Yep, just another day in paradise. Free to be you and me. I love Canada for being a place where I am free to enjoy my friends and family of all stripes. But it wasn’t that long ago that I had no idea where so much of my freedom comes from. Because of a tireless hero named the Rev. Dr. Brent Hawkes, senior pastor at the Metropolitan Community Church of Toronto, my beloved J and G could stand at the altar. Because Brent Hawkes is brave and fearless, Canada is leading the world in many human rights affairs. I’m more guilty than anyone else on Church Street in complaining about just about everything, but Brent’s work puts things into perspective pretty quickly: gays in other parts of the world are regularly jailed, tortured, or killed. A lot of Church Street won’t set foot in church, and though you are invited, friends, you don’t have to feel the spirit to be a part of Brent’s fuzzy glow. We are free to a large extent because of his work.

I’m ashamed that I was only peripherally aware of Dr. Hawkes for so long, and grateful that it has changed. Last summer, after a two-decade absence, I returned to church. There were a few reasons for that, but I wasn’t expecting to find something so genuine and smart. I was prepared to swallow more than a little b.s. just to spend a few hours during a desolate period, a long grief, with God.

The second I walked into the old building, an understanding of the word ‘sanctuary’ suddenly flooded through me. The program I was handed said Welcome Home. This is a progressive faith, a positive life force, and it’s done wonders to balance the negativity and sorrow that accompany much of life. What can I say? Church is fabulous.

But whether or not we are a part of Brent’s church, we are all a part of his legacy. He braved bullets for us. He gave us freedoms we are hardly aware we have. For decades, Brent has served the front lines of fighting for human rights for gays and for all. He has earned numerous awards for his participation in endless causes. Brent doesn’t just learn from history: he makes it. While some of his work has been through various committees and advisory boards, some has been rather unorthodox: the hunger strike, for example, showed us a man who was willing to starve for our rights and freedoms.

You don’t have to take my word for it, friends. Today was the investiture ceremony for Pastor Hawkes being named to the Order of Canada — the country’s highest civilian honour. I am fiercely proud to be a part of Brent’s church and invite you to come out and learn about some of the ways it is active in local and global communities.

All are welcome: and in case you were afraid to ask, not everyone is gay. It’s not really about that. It’s just a place where everyone strives to get along, to open the heart. People from every faith background mingle naturally with people from every cultural background, from every subculture, from every kind of human need and longing, people of every kind. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight. It’s all rather astonishing and I encourage you to visit. It is one of the rare places in my life that I have found that ever-elusive joy, the peace that passeth understanding.

Congratulations on today’s honour, my dear Pastor Brent. I am proud to be a part of his flock, and I have much to learn from a man who risks everything to give rights and freedoms to us. It’s clear Brent learned straight from the source, and took it to heart when Jesus said, “A greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

For more information on services, outreach, mission, etc:
www.mcctoronto.com

Visit the writer at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

Eat, Drink, and Be Mary

Zelda’s is not your average nosh pit: it’s Toronto’s one and only trailer camp. Keeping camp alive is the name of the game. Queer history keeps writing itself, and we’re integrating seamlessly in a progressive post-Will and Grace-culture. But certain ebulliences of bygone days are necessary complements to our life of Starbucks, Ellen, Utne Reader and the urban dog park (where we’ve never had to sit at the back of the bus!) These include rags like Fab- (because tacky journalism must never die), old-time and heavily powdered queens who remember Shirley Bassey, the feather boa, and the penchant for lisping that neither scientists nor theorists can yet explain but which has such a comforting lull. This is the place where it will always be cool to say “work it, girl” and have fussy pink or purple cocktails. This is the place where no one forgets about Erasure. Think of pink flamingoes and beehive wigs and you’re already here.

No matter that no waiter will sashay toward your table in the time it takes you to say “Cher”. Or, in fact, to read the whole menu and the Fab Boy blurb as well: there is no effing hurry, dahhhling. Now lounge! Zeldatinis like Yeehaw, Bitch Slap, and Sugartits will get you off in the right direction. Hopefully they’ll have karaoke somewhere tonight! Expect your ambience to be swaddled in pink and velvet drapery and gauzes, supremely tacky retro wallpaper, and severed mannequin bits glued all higgly piggly in every manner of boa and Fame-set legwarmer. Yeah, baby, of course the festive and the fey didn’t forget those patio lanterns, tiki lights and buoyant bubbling baubles of light and yeah, order another one of those lip smacking…things with those little umbrellas….

If you’re lucky, Donnarama will be headlining tonight. Long live Cher and Shania but the real dame of Church St. is this brilliant female illusionist and her signature performances of Courtney Love. You never know what song or genre or even gender Donnarama will be next: she’s done Barbra, Bjork and Elton John.

Truly, wacky drag shows are staples here, one of the things that make Zelda’s so fabulous. The campiest wait staff don’t work here, they ‘work it’ here, or even ‘work it oouutt!” here. Other great stuff: ten years of bawdy, zany, humour, so much more buoyant than mine but still sufficiently twisted to feel at home with. Ten years of heavy community involvement and all kinds of trampy fundraising marathons. Zelda’s cares. It’s not all just face paint.

And girl, the gift just keeps on giving, ‘cause Zelda’s has pretty good food. It’s really rather yummy. The yam frites are by now a classic- gooey fries with a stellar dose of beta-carotene. The Mac and Cheese- well, that’s just tacky ol’ hilly billy food now iishn’t it, slurred Dolli Parton one night and I had to try it. Brandine, you’re just divine- oven baked and like, a half-dozen cheeses? The Billy Bob BLT is best for hangover breakfasts: it comes with maple-smoked bacon, a luuurvely detail. Goes down luuuurvely too with a nice Bloody Caesar- you know, while we’re having tomatoes. Honestly, just order anything. Zelda’s has pub food, from people who care about pub food. The burgers, the pierogies, all damn delicious and there’s always a detail or twist that stands out and there’s even vitamins in minerals in most of the selections. Groovy. The salads are wonderfully fruity, perfect for patio picnicking here with another two jugs- yes, jugs, you know, pitchers? of Jackie-Ohhhhh. The scrumptious and dutifully named Cala-mary the jalapeño munchers, and the Marvelous Meatloaf are all delightful.

Did I mention the staff loves to dress up? Go hang more often at Zelda’s- you’ll just be happier overall. You’ll be certain to hit a theme night, cause at Zelda’s, every day is gay Halloween. Which means you, too, can head to that lighthouse in the city in any possible getup without fear of being inappropriate. So c’mon over and have some fun.

Zelda’s
542 Church St.
416.922.2526

Awfully Gorgeous: Dana’s Damned Dollies

Another art party at Shampoo Hair is always cause for celebration. Of course it’s super cool when a resident hottie fetches your beer from an ice-filled shampooing sink. It’s even cooler to gaze around at hipsters in their inspired vintage outfits, no doubt killer mixing pieces from Kensington’s clothes bounty. But coolest of all, the creative community comes together casually to enjoy one another’s company and to look at and talk about art in a relaxed manner without pretension. These are art shows for real people who want to have a good time, not be bored to death and worried about saying the wrong thing. The flavour recalls the good old days when the Idea Museum created gallery spaces by exhibiting hot local artists in Cabbagetown apartments, inviting a DJ, and leaving the hoity-toity scenesters in the pages of Toronto Life where they belonged. Whatever happened to that Brat Pack?

This time, Jessica Whitbread double duties as both the brains and the beauty behind the Shampoo series, merging her curatorial acumen with her natural flare for a party, and voila, the results are Awfully Gorgeous. Montreal artist Dana De Kuyper is the creator of these Damned Dollies, strangely festive little poppets that make the macabre cute and cuddly. You might recognize Dana’s dollies from the pages of Strut, Bust, or Elle Quebec, but don’t miss them while they’re on display for the next few weeks at Shampoo, 32 St. Andrew Street, Toronto. They’re so affordable that you can pick up a handful, and the varying characters will absolutely remind you of specific personalities or friends.

Recent years have seen a revival in doll making, with a kind of gothic bent. Year before last, Ugly Dolls, those impossibly sweet plush toys that flew from the shelves, won Toy of the Year Award. Those string-a-long monster doll key chains dangle from every cell phone and key ring in sight. As a toy lover, this is all great and dandy, but Dana’s pieces feel like real characters because they are one-of-a-kind, stitched and bitched by her inventive hand into unique being.

Those cranky sour types I don’t like might ask what kind of importance the art of weird dolls could possibly bring to the table. But those who know the meaning of life would say make play, not war.

Visit Dana: www.damneddollies.com

Visit the writer at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.

There is Nothing New Under the Sun: Britney, Babylon, and the Modern World

Like everyone else on the planet, my addiction to celebrity addictions has reached a crescendo. It’s all consuming. Picture a group of four civilized thirtysomethings gathered in the big city for a night of gourmet Thai food and a good catch-up. Two girls, two guys: could be unused Will and Grace footage. Except the hairdresser is leaning intently over a tabloid that features a close up of Michael Jackson’s latest facial bandages. The restaurant manager reaches for Ebony- it’s got the MJ makeover pics, and we decide that’s probably as good as Mikey’s ever gonna look. The actress is circling all the known addicts in Life and Style with a purple Sharpie. The writer muses out loud that even squeaky-clean Nicole K’s husband is an addict. None of that, of course, is anywhere near as important as the story of the century- the public downward spiral of Brit-Brit Spears. This week’s latest chapter has us on the edge of our seats: did Brit’s mom really sleep with K-Fed and the new sinister-looking Arab hottie? Cause if it’s true, it would explain just about every damn thing that’s wrong with that poor girl.

Sure, I’ve been worried about my escalating compulsion to watch the latest breaking stories of Hollywood’s filthy fallouts on late night TV. Worse is the guilty knowledge that even the cheapest glossy rag is a waste of my hard-earned money. But I’ve already given up drugs and sugar, so I cut myself some slack- so long as I am still stopping by Book City for fresh Canadian poetry volumes, Discover Magazine, and cookbooks, so long as I am completing my non-celeb writing assignments, so long as I am eating and sleeping and taking regular baths and changing the kitty litter…

I’ve railed against a machine that drove Diana into the long tunnel from which she never emerged. I’ve lambasted a world that thinks it’s okay to take zoom shots of Britney’s panties, which prove, evidently, that the girl is not, today at least, pregnant with Adnan’s baby. But I’ve also defended the insatiable public appetite for destruction, for who wore what when and where, who took what drug at which party, and who is zooming whom. I agree with Camille Paglia, though I am not nearly so articulate as she, that the stars are the stars: humans always have a pantheon of gods and goddesses, from antiquity into the modern world, who reach unknown heights and plunge to sordid deaths. Greco-Roman mythology reads like the rags read today: Hercules was insane and murdered his wife and children. Arachne hanged herself. Zeus kills Semele while Dionysus is still in her womb. Murder, suicide, madness, incest, torture, revenge, drugs, secrets, prostitution: it’s all there, and it’s there in every mythology of the world, not just the much-studied classics. It is no mistake that Diana is another name for Artemis, Goddess of the moon, the hunter and the hunted one. Celebrity is our modern day mythology. It isn’t going to go away.

Camille said, “Popular culture is the new Babylon, into which so much art and intellect now flow. It is our imperial sex theater, supreme temple of the western eye. We live in the age of idols. The pagan past, never dead, flames again in our mystic hierarchies of stardom.” Whether or not it’s reprehensible, it is absolutely human. The gods are half human, and half celestial. With one foot on earth, and the other in heaven or hell, we look to them to play out the psychodramas in our own life, not, as many assume, to revel in their lives because we do not have one of our own. And perhaps this familiar tendency is not unique to humans, but to other animals. I’ve long believed my cats talk about my peeps and me when I’m not home. Surely I’m mad, but scientists have discovered that dolphins gossip- no joke. See, I told you I’m still reading some science here and there!

Perhaps at this point in history, post-Diana, where paparazzi is a household word and a lucrative career choice, where we are practically standing in gas-station bathrooms with a woman named Britney that we don’t even know, it would be a good time to stop berating ourselves for our very human hunger and see if we can create a future direction for our celebrity addiction. Can awareness of our need for this kind of theatre help us create a better world?

We feel guilty for our rabid obsessions with the mad, the mental, and the maxed-out. We shake our heads and say, ‘Why can’t they leave that poor little girl alone?” The nastier among us may think, “Crazy rich bitch, who cares.” I’m not down with that- though I might trade in my humble rental for a couple of million, I’m sure that a few good friends and a few peaceful hours to read a novel might be everything in the world that Britney Spears wants tonight. Still, if her world changed tonight, if she left her house and there was nobody outside, no cameras flashing, no headlines, the shock would kill her. We malign her for seeking out that attention, but we are all victims of our environment. The Amish children who leave go back home for the most part. People commit suicide when they lose a shitty dead-end job they’ve been grumbling about for years. We know what we know. Britney knows nothing else. It is not her fault that she has fed on the flash and the adrenaline for so long.

Regardless, the media vulture is not going to go away. If it did, Britney Spears would drop dead. It seems we are waiting with bated breath for that to happen- there is more than one contest up and running where whoever guesses the date and time of that event wins. Humans are a corrupt and bloodthirsty lot. We love a car crash; we love a bullfight, boxing, wrestling, and movies like Hostel. We love war. We are greedy and fat and neurotic and we beat our wives and children. We keep slaves and we sell our daughters. This bloodthirstiness is nothing new. It’s a given. I find it horrible and disgusting and sick and sad, but it has been true from the very beginning. While I applaud every single action anyone makes toward peace, goodwill, equality, generosity, and compassion, none of these noble gestures erase the fact that we are rotten to the core. We can’t afford to be sentimentalists: realism gives us a better foothold for change. For all have sinned and come short of the glory of God. And even that glory, if you learn about Him in the Bible, is a vicious, savage glory, warmongering and smiting left and right.

Perhaps there is the other side to the story. The side that has to follow every anguished cry of Our Lady of Madness because her cry is ours. Perhaps we are hoping for her to ‘get help’ because it illustrates our own struggle, the fumble to find ecstasy, or just peace of mind for crying out loud. In the midst of success, we may feel isolated. In the midst of marriage, we may be terrified we made a poor choice. We may fear our parenting skills. We may be scared of our drug use. All these stories do is play out on a large screen scale the same trials and woes we all have. From what to wear to dinner, to whether or not this week’s shrink appointment is going to make a rat’s ass of difference to the astonishing emptiness we feel. Britney was crying in the chapel, and so are we.

While the narrow philosophies I was raised with would tediously refer to Hollywood as ‘glorifying sin’, perhaps instead it illuminates the best and worst of our obsessions. We sneer this week about how ‘everyone’s going to rehab since Heath jumped ship.” Did you ever think that the public travails of Anna Nicole Smith and Lindsay Lohan made it amazingly easy for the rest of the world to start tossing up the word ‘addiction’? I think it’s amazing that in the fall out of this particular tempest- the unexpected death of a very talented actor, and our fear that brilliant new songstress Amy Winehouse is at the edge of that abyss, people are looking at their own issues and saying “no more bullshit. I’m going into rehab.” We can only try. Trying is everything. Maybe rehab won’t work out for Winehouse, or for Eva Mendes, or for Delta Burke. But maybe it will. Maybe Winehouse hopes to make an even better album instead of dying. I sure hope it works out for her because I’d love to hear it.

The thing is, there is no specific solution. It’s romantic and naïve to think humans have ever had one. We are incredibly contradictory, and though solutions have been thrown around since the beginning of time, (some of these bright ideas have included exterminating the race of enemies, bringing slaves to build our countries, torturing mental patients, castrating women…) we don’t have any fucking solutions. We only have our tricky history of violence and obsession, mixed with our amazing contributions and discoveries. We will never evolve to our full potential, because, just as technology has made us into magicians who can chat over breakfast with friends across the world, our natural greed has scourged the earth. On the smaller scale, we must have witnessed in our own life that sometimes finding Jesus worked, and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes therapy or rehab worked, but sometimes we lost the fight and buried a loved one. Sometimes a new medical breakthrough saved the life of our child or gave us back mobility. Sometimes it didn’t, and helpless, we watched cancer or AIDS or diabetes take someone from us.

We can’t know how things will work out. It isn’t personal- when a hurricane sweeps through a city and demolishes it, it isn’t personal. I wasn’t a better person just because the hurricanes have not so far struck Toronto. You aren’t a better person than Britney just because you take your Prozac like a good little girl. Don’t be so sure that nobody at your church knows about your secrets. They do: if only because they share them.

It all takes us back to square one. We are going to do what we are going to do. Good and evil will always rival inside of us, a tug of war that never finds resolution. So that means we keep on striving to become better, but don’t fall off an imaginary pedestal when things- big surprise- don’t necessarily work out. We can’t stop war, but we keep trying because it’s the right thing to do. We can’t stop every violence or poverty in the world, every disease or despairing heart, but we can help one child, we can give one homeless man a banana and a coffee. We can’t win over all of our bad habits, but we can probably change a few of them. We can’t eradicate all of the darkness inside of us, but we can strive for light. After all, as Oprah said, to do less than your best is a sin.

www.thegirlcanwrite.net
Lorette C. Luzajic

I hope you will visit my site above and explore my writing. If you think your friend will like me, please pass me on! You can order my poetry collection, The Astronaut’s Wife: Poems of Eros and Thanatos online through indigo or amazon.